She turned her face away. “It’s forgotten. We’ll not mention it.”
He gave her a hard, almost angry look, but said nothing. Isobel didn’t know what to do. Some foolish part of her didn’t want to leave, but she was as good as married, she had no business standing out here kissing and wanting another man. Guilt stabbedher.
She moved away from him hesitantly. When he didn’t stop her, she hurried back to her room. At the door she peered back down the corridor. He still stood where she had left him, in the shadowy patch of gray, arms crossed over his chest. It was too dark to tell, but she thought he stared after her.
Baobh le suil uaine,he’d whispered. She searched her mind for the old tongue, and stiffened when she realized what he’d called her. Green-eyed witch—or witch with green eyes. She shut the door to her room quickly, leaning against it, terror sending her heart racing. What did this mean? They were in Scotland, and he thought she was a witch. Would he act on his suspicion or did his loyalty to Alan MacDonell protect her? Her father had warned her to hide her gift, and she’d foolishly revealed herself. She’d tricked the bakers, but Philip was clearly not as gullible. She stared down at her hands. She wasn’t even wearing gloves.
She tore open her satchel and searched for her mother’s ivory casket. She gripped it hard, her mother’s love washing over her. But that was not what she needed just then. She removed the peridot charm, clasped it between her palms and forced herself to experience her mother’s death until she fell into an exhausted and troubled sleep.
Chapter 7
They set off the next morning with Philip determined to banish all thoughts of Isobel MacDonell. He’d been mad last night to kiss her—he still couldn’t fathom what had possessed him. He’d only meant to intimidate her, to put her in her place. Instead, he’d kissed her. And damned if she hadn’t kissed him back with far more enthusiasm than any maiden—betrothedmaiden—should.
It’d been the whisky—there was no other explanation. He hadn’t thought he’d drunk that much, but apparently he had. He’d never been one to act so impulsively, especially with a woman. Well, he knew better now. He wouldn’t touch another drop of whisky until Isobel was safe in her betrothed’s arms.
His gaze rested on her, riding beside Stephen a few yards ahead of him and Fergus. She looked pale and tired this morning, a shade of the woman who’d purred in his arms last night. Her hair was pulled back into a bulky braid and wrapped with some kind of filmy material so its burnished color was hidden. She’d hardly spoken to him this morning. Unlike all the other edicts and warnings he’d issued, she seemed to be taking his kiss seriously, as well she should. He had no wish to duel it out with her betrothed.
And still, she had no maid. He still cursed himself for bungling that. He would try again in the next village. Hawkirk was a good-sized border town with a weekly market. They’d stayed there on their journey to England. So long as he didn’t fly into another fit of rage they shouldn’t have a problem finding a proper servant for her.
Fergus cleared his throat. Philip glanced at his friend.
“I heard ye last night—ootside me door. And so I took a peek, just to make sure naught was amiss.”
Philip stared at his friend, then looked away. “Aye?”
“That’s all I’m saying.”
Philip exhaled through his nose, his mouth grim. He’d said enough. “It won’t happen again.”
“I ken it won’t. Her betrothed is an earl, Philip—ye canna amuse yerself wi’ her.”
Philip’s eyes narrowed at Fergus. “Is that what you think I was doing? Amusing myself?”
“I hope it wasna more than that.” When Philip didn’t respond, Fergus’s brows lowered. “Philip? What’re ye thinking?”
Philip shook his head. He wanted to tell Fergus about the bakery, but wasn’t certain how his friend would react. Fergus would never harm Isobel, but still, Philip couldn’t allow anyone to look upon her with suspicion. Fergus was a very superstitious sort. He would keep the bakery incident to himself. Besides, the more he thought about it, the more her explanation made sense—however suspicious it had appeared.
“You needn’t worry, Friend. My good sense is not between my legs.”
Fergus searched Philip’s face, then smiled. “I didna think so. It’s not like you to lose yer good sense over a lass. Besides, if Irecall, there’s entertainment aplenty in the next town to take yer mind off her.”
Fergus’s devotion to his young wife kept him from indulging in such activities, but neither Philip nor Stephen had anything to deter them from a night of feminine sport.
“Oh, aye.” Philip grinned and winked with more enthusiasm than he felt, but it was just what Fergus needed to set his mind at rest.
When the sun was high in the sky Philip finally called their party to a halt. There was a loch nearby. Philip ordered Fergus and Stephen to take the horses down for water.
Isobel started to follow them.
“Mistress MacDonell?” Philip called.
“Yes?”
“Hold. There’s something I need to say.”
When she turned to him, her paleness had fled. Rose bloomed in her cheeks. Burnished blond curls escaped their plait to feather against her temples and forehead, glinting copper in the sun. Lovely, even after hours in the saddle. If it hadn’t been clear to him before, it was now—he was quite taken with Isobel MacDonell. It had been years since he’d longed for anything more in a woman than a creative bed partner, but she’d awakened a dull longing in his soul. Dull because of its futility. Oh, he could seduce her—he had no doubt that last night she would have willingly ruined herself. This morning she was clearly having regrets; but he was still confident, if he set himself to it, he could overcome her resistance. But to do such a thing would be foolish and cruel—not to mention a nasty affront to Alan MacDonell and the earl of Kincreag—possibly sparking a feud the Kilpatricks of Clan Colquhoun would not be pleased about.
These were not welcome realizations, and so he said, with more gruffness than he’d intended, “We’ll be stopping in another village tomorrow. You are to help no one else. Understand?”
